


Can’t I Adore You Although We’re Oceans Apart?

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2020-06-27 18:09:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19796260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Hilda takes it upon herself to keep up Zelda’s morale.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thegaygumballmachine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thegaygumballmachine/gifts).



> A prompt from the group chat re: some glamour shots and how they might’ve come to be.

Zelda’s never been subtle.

Her magic has always glowed hot and red, her emotions always seeping through any neutral facial expression she could muster, coloring both her physical body and her metaphysical magical aura.

So it’s a wonder to all of them when she’s chosen for top-secret, highly classified mortal work in this big important mortal war.

They have all guessed already what, generally, she will be up to, but somehow she’s been able to fool the mortal government into thinking that she can keep a secret. And she really seems to think she can. She’s so smug about it, so dramatically tight-lipped about it. They all know in their own ways, but Hilda especially sees the pride and self-aggrandizement in colors and sounds and feelings particular to her particular gift. Hilda has always seen just a shade more.

The family has citizenship in plenty of disparate locations. Father is Greek. Mother is French. Edward is Swiss. Gerald—Satan rest him—had been Portuguese. Zelda is American. Hilda is English. Officially, anyway. And they take their turns residing in different places to avoid suspicion, to avoid questions, to be who they are as a witching family. They stay nearly anywhere as long as they like although the family home is now in Greendale. Zelda’s never been subtle, and she’s often gotten her way.

So when it’s 1942 and thinly veiled American advertisements in many prominent newspapers go out to educated young women with a knack for problem solving, no one is surprised when Zelda tells them suddenly that she’s joined the Women’s Army Corps and then pointedly doesn’t tell them what her assignment is.

Hilda can’t help but think this all is in direct opposition to her very open and honest role as ambulance driver. Not only is Zelda never subtle, but she has always needed to one-up her.

Hilda knows Zelda needs to surpass her at least partially because she can’t deal with her feelings for her. Hilda knows Zelda needs to grasp something because she can’t grasp her own repressed desires. Hilda doesn’t care to wrestle with what she knows about herself consequentially.

Zelda dons an olive uniform. Olive is disgusting, but of course Zelda is a redhead and can pull it off.

Zelda loudly pretends she’s doing merely administrative work. She very obviously pretends, her magical aura pulsating against the obvious lie, her pursed lips and haughtily straight shoulders implicitly telling without explicitly telling. Even her uniform tells—she doesn’t tie her hair within any kind of military regulation, fingernails still painted. She’s never been one for décolletage, but she’s made an exception and keeps a few buttons open just to prove the uniform is merely costume. Hilda is the only one to notice. She rolls her eyes about it as hard as she thinks about it in the bath.

And they all indulge Zelda in her artfully constructed lies that serve to further other lies. Mother and Father and Edward succinctly and dutifully indulge her.

But Hilda is doing her own part for the war effort. She’s doing her part physically and psychologically. Mother and Father and Edward are rather removed from the actual atrocities and realities, holing themselves up in penthouses and hosting parties where they wax philosophical on various topics but rage against the Axis only ever with their mouths. They can afford to be cerebral and indulge Zelda in any way she wants when they’re rich and giving parties and drinking champagne. It’s their right. Witches should be able to remove themselves from the mortal world. But Hilda doesn’t find that mindset expedient or conciliatory or right. And if Zelda’s recent activities can be believed, neither does she.

Hilda, however. She’s put herself out there in a more palpable way. She drives an ambulance. She sees and feels and ministers to actual real bodies. She can’t afford to indulge Zelda in the same way. But she also knows that Zelda’s work is important. She knows the secret things Zelda engages in do give way to actual real things, have far-reaching consequences.

Hilda is torn between believing her sister’s intentions altruistic and supporting her or thinking her sister incurably vain and indulging her. Because either way, Zelda is going to do what she’s going to do. 

But Hilda’s been pretending to be a mortal medic for over a year now, and Zelda’s been pretending to be a mortal code breaker for six months. Surely their intentions overlap. Zelda’s never been subtle, but she’s also never been wishy-washy. For all the things Hilda’s felt and discerned about her, there’s at least that. They’re both witches of sincere conviction, shameful secret lust for each other not withstanding.

Hilda’s checking her equipment, preparing for a run, when the post comes in, and one of her coworkers says,

“Letter for Spellman!”

Hilda greedily opens the envelope. There are plenty of people who might write to her, but she can discern Zelda’s penmanship from a meter away, and it sets her heart to racing.

A lot of it is redacted. But there’s enough there for her to understand: Zelda, for all her bluster and pride, is lonely. Zelda is working hard and can never be acknowledged for her efforts because of the nature of the operation.

If Hilda knows anything at all about her sister, it’s that Zelda requires someone to appreciate her, see her, understand her, think her talented and worthy of so much more.

She sits on it for a while, stews on it.

Hilda knows Zelda is vain, is proud, desires and needs validation. Hilda relishes the fact that Zelda has entrusted her with this admission. Hilda relishes that Zelda trusts her with this. Hilda remembers how much longing and yearning there always was there beneath the teasing and preening.

Mother and Father and Edward are all in their own high towers. Moral high ground. Intellectual. But Hilda and Zelda are actually doing something with their hands and bodies and minds. Hilda is mostly body; Zelda is mostly mind. But still. They’re both there, very much closer to the front line. They’re not being shot at, but Hilda’s dealing with those who have been shot at, and Zelda’s calculating and calculating so that people won’t be shot at. It’s all stressful and horrible and front-line adjacent.

At least Hilda can bullshit with her colleagues and win ration cards in poker games. But Zelda is tied up in security clearances. It’s a natural consequence of seeing herself as the smartest among them. But still Hilda feels for her.

It’s a malformed plan she finally arrives at, but it’s something.

How fortuitous, then, that one of Hilda’s medic pals also happens to be a very talented amateur photographer.

If Zelda can send highly redacted letters, surely she can receive similar.

Redaction is almost always to conceal state secrets. Redaction of non-partisan pornography, especially if it’s tasteful and meant to boost morale, is slower to gain traction.

xxx

Zelda tirelessly analyzes the codes coming in, runs them through the machine even as she looks for patterns with her own two eyes. She may as well be a machine herself. She hardly sleeps, hardly eats. The other girls there wonder about her stamina.

“Letter for Spellman!” a courier shouts. Zelda tears into the letter. There are plenty of people who might write to her, but she can discern Hilda’s penmanship from a yard away, and it sets her heart to racing.

It’s not so much a letter. It’s a blank card signed, “Proud of you. Hope these encourage you. Love, H.” And wedged between the flaps, there are snapshots. Zelda does not look at them immediately. There are too many eyes around. She slips the whole kit and caboodle into her pocket and resumes her work.

But that night, after her three roommates are snoring, Zelda runs her fingers blindly over the card in the dark. She lights a match so she can see one of the pictures.

Hilda’s let her hair grow out. And she’s draped over a chaise in a frilly blouse and long skirt.

Zelda likes that, lets herself be warmed by the image from the inside out until she’s unknowingly and restlessly grinding her ankles against each other.

The match dies, and she deposits it in her ashtray on her nightstand.

A zip of sulfur, and she’s looking at the next photo. Very much the same, except Hilda’s facial expression is different. Her fingertips burn with the end of the stick as she analyzes those dimples.

Another match another photo, but this one is pin-up lingerie, a cheeky smirk. She almost extinguishes her match accidentally. Already her other hand has disappeared under the scratchy regulation sheets and is cupping her own mons pubis.

Zelda lights a cigarette just barely, the match so far gone.

The cherry of her cigarette illuminates dimly. But it’s just enough to see Hilda’s pose, the shape of her, the idea of her.

Zelda’s never been subtle. But Hilda’s always been subtle. But now she’s not subtle at all. Where did she get these taken, and when and how did she get so bold? They’ve never expressly acknowledged… it. Never acknowledged lingering looks and accidental on purpose touches.

Zelda sucks in a breath of tobacco and lets her other hand continue to wander.

She doesn’t think about how Hilda knows what she wants. She doesn’t think about how Hilda has given it to her. She doesn’t think at all as her fingers descend.

But she can’t not look. She lights another match.

And there’s Hilda, perfect tits straining against lace, offering up her plump, pert ass as an offering to the camera and viewer as she bends over that chaise. Her legs have never seemed so long as they have in these stockings and ankle-strap pumps. Zelda can’t look anymore. She needs both hands.

Zelda extinguishes the match, her cigarette, herself. She’s furiously stroking, images of Hilda flitting in her brain.

xxx

It’s a month before there’s a letter for Spellman at the station house. It’s just a few sentences on a small sheet of yellow, lined paper:

_Have you lost your mind? I could be court-martialed for possessing this kind of trash._

_Z_

_PS Send more when you can. Would like to trade one for extra cigarettes but cannot bear to part with any of them at this juncture._

Hilda figures this not-so-ringing endorsement is as subtle as Zelda has the capacity to be.

She also figures they’ll have plenty to discuss—and hopefully not discuss—when Zelda gets a furlough.


	2. Chapter 2

Zelda’s procured a furlough.

It’s a four-day pass, and it’s too late to enjoy Solstice properly because it’s officially a Christmas furlough, running from the 23rd to the 26th. 

So what. 

The Yule log is a chore more than anything, and the only thing she’s missing about home and yearning for is Hilda, preferably in that lingerie although that’s not a strict requirement or even something she deems reasonable. The fact is, she’s been lonely, and Hilda is the only one who gets her in any accessible way, regardless of any other weird thing between them.

Hilda had indeed sent four more photographs upon request. Two tasteful, fully clothed shots against ivy-covered brick walls half-decimated by bombings—this time in her regulation ambulance-driver coveralls except unbuttoned to show freckles and collarbones, hair long and curled. Zelda had been particularly taken with these, remembering seeing those freckles in different contexts and different outfits for a century and a half and not being allowed to fully appreciate them until now.

And two mostly nude but still tasteful images in abandoned London tube channels. It was the same lingerie as before. Zelda supposed Hilda owned just the one set of sexy underclothes, and somehow that idea inflamed her even more. That Hilda had saved up and very deliberately chosen the exact red lace and satin that would best complement her skin tone and entice her target. It’s a lot to take in. 

Zelda hadn’t been able to part with a single photograph, had rationed herself on cigarettes so she could enjoy what had been so freely given to her. She hadn’t had one sleepless night since Hilda had first “written” her. She had been too sated by the photos and her own hand working in tandem.

Zelda had been rather more confident when she had talked her way onto a rare transatlantic flight, but now that she’s getting closer—now that she’s within spitting distance of what she’s always wanted but has refused herself on principal—she’s less sure of herself. 

She is currently panicking on her train toward Zelda’s flat in London.

An attractive RAF pilot in her train car is trying to chat her up, and all she can manage to say to him is,

“I’ve got a sweetheart already, sweetheart. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

And still she’s fretting and fidgeting in her seat. Does she have a sweetheart, or is this all some game? Does she have a sweetheart, or has Hilda just been indulging her? She knows obliquely she’s been indulged her whole life, by everyone. But for Hilda to indulge her in this specific way, surely it’s more than mere indulgence. Surely every time she’s looked at Hilda and Hilda has looked back... Before the pictures she could’ve chalked it up to indulgence and empathy. But now. But now?

She fingers the neatly tied bow on the present she’s brought for Hilda and hopes and frets.

xxx

Zelda’s never been subtle. Hilda’s always been subtle.

The family indulges both of them in their way.

The family meets at Hilda’s for Solstice even though she doesn’t have a fireplace.

They exchange gifts and drink hot chocolate made from Hilda’s canned milk, huddled on the tiny divan in front of her unreliable radiator.

Hilda can tell they’re all disgusted and uncomfortable.

Finally, Mother says,

“Where’s your sister for this occasion?”

Edward pointedly doesn’t even flinch. It’s obvious Zelda is Hilda’s sister and only Hilda’s sister. Not technically or biologically, of course. But functionally, relationally. Hilda suppresses an eyeroll at the absolute ridiculousness of it all.

“Isn’t free till tomorrow,” Hilda says.

They all scoff and pretend not to.

Hilda knows this isn’t the kind of indulgence Zelda desires. Hilda knows Zelda wants approval and admiration, not grudging acceptance.

“Well! Blessed Solstice!” Hilda says, a little more forcefully than she’d intended. “I’m sure you’ve got your own parties to attend! Wouldn’t want to keep you too long! I’m on call, after all.”

Her family leaves, conspicuously side-eying her. She’s often been indulged but more often been suspected. It’s usual but still trying.

xxx

Hilda’s waiting at the train station.

Zelda descends the platform, carrying one olive green bag, bursting at its seams with clothes she hasn’t been allowed to wear.

Their hands meet and fingers interlock.

“I’ve missed you,” Zelda says.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Hilda says.

xxx

They’re in Hilda’s flat, and Zelda is untying her scarf.

Hilda’s putting on a kettle.

They very deliberately do not look at each other. Several silent minutes pass, Zelda staring at a bookshelf, Hilda staring at the teapot.

Zelda finally clears her throat, says,

“Whoever took those pictures is a lucky person.”

“Oh?” Hilda says.

“Yes,” Zelda says.

Hilda draws the blackout curtains, says,

“You liked them, then?”

“Yes,” Zelda says against the dark. “More than.” There is a breath. “I’ve cherished them.”

Hilda pours two cups of tea, sits next to her on the divan, says,

“Did you get quality cigarettes out of them, then?”

They do look at each other then. A spark of understanding passes between them. Zelda sucks in a breath, says,

“I brought you a Solstice present.”

Hilda’s eyes light, and she stands, rummages through a desk drawer.

“I’ve got one for you, too,” Hilda says.

They’re sitting knee-to-knee, thigh-to-thigh, exchanging gifts, tea cooling on the coffee table.

Nail polish for Zelda. A hummingbird brooch for Hilda. They run respective fingers over respective gifts and respectively sigh.

Zelda takes a drink from her mug, says,

“Thank you. You know me so well.”

Hilda takes a drink from her mug, says,

“It’s my duty. As your—”

“Don’t say it,” Zelda says. “I’d feel too guilty about the pictures.”

“Don’t feel guilty. I was the one photographed, fully knowing—”

Zelda stands, huffs,

“But were you fully knowing? Were you fully knowing what I’d do with those in the dark of my own depravity? Were you fully knowing that’s all I’ve ever wanted? Were you fully knowing I bullied and killed you because I wanted you? Were you fully knowing that I knew you knew I wanted to touch you and hated myself every moment? Were you really fully knowing?”

Zelda is pacing and blazing.

Hilda says in a whisper,

“Yes.”

Zelda watches her mouth form the word, scoffs,

“No, you didn’t! If you’d known, you would’ve hated me!”

“I did know,” Hilda says evenly. “And I don’t hate you. I’ve indulged you, in point of fact.”

Zelda is even angrier, pacing even more frantically. Zelda shouts:

“Exactly! Indulgence is not acceptance! Indulgence is not attraction!”

“What do I have to do to prove to you I want you?” Hilda says.

Zelda pauses. They look at each other.

“There’s no reason you should,” Zelda says.

“There’s also no reason I shouldn’t,” Hilda says.


	3. Chapter 3

Zelda takes a long look at Hilda.

Hilda’s face is so open, eyes so clear, mouth so poised to say something but restraining itself.

Zelda lights a cigarette, is not surprised that her hands are shaking.

What, exactly, had she been thinking when she’d indulged herself in such an outburst? She blames it on her nerves, the sleep she hasn’t been getting. She knows she should’ve just teleported. But she had to prove to herself she could do it the mortal way. She’s been living in the mortal realm, has gotten used to it, has had some foolish pride that she can endure it with no side effects. Her psyche begs to differ. Her pent up magic begs to differ. It’s all tied up together—magic and rage and self-control and executive function. She’s no witch psychologist, but she knows enough to know that if there’s not a balance, something will crack. And apparently, something has. And it’s her. She’s never once thought it prudent to confront Hilda in this way, never once thought it would get her anywhere, never once thought it the appropriate course of action, never once thought Hilda might reciprocate in any way that wasn’t coerced or manipulated somehow. 

But here Hilda is, her own independent entity, all open and indulgent and looking at her like this, all but begging her to do something. 

Zelda ashes her cigarette into her mug of tea. She’s never liked tea, anyway, always has been a coffee girl. She looks away from Hilda’s eyes, says,

“There’s no reason you shouldn’t prove it? Or there’s no reason you shouldn’t want me?”

“I’m less interested in semantics and more interested in you,” Hilda says.

“Pretty words for a pretty mouth. But meaningless nevertheless,” Zelda says.

Hilda laughs.

“You’d never have come home to me if you really thought that,” Hilda says.

Zelda turns on her heel, takes a step closer, looks again into Hilda’s eyes. There’s so much in them she’d like to extinguish, one way or another. She takes another step, bends to face her. She hisses,

“Home?! This ramshackle rathole is far from anything I’d call home!”

Hilda flinches briefly, but then she straightens her spine on the davenport, and they’re very nearly chest to chest as she says,

“What would you call home, then? A dilapidated mortuary run by hired hands in the absence of the actual owners? A chic penthouse with your immediate family where you’re pettily whispered about and summarily avoided? A clandestine bunker where you secretly choke your chicken to images of your sister in pretty panties?”

Zelda slaps Hilda’s face. 

She hadn't meant to do it. It’s a gut reaction. It’s quick and hard and thoughtless. It’s her hot, red magic and her hot, red temper and her hot, red desire coalescing into one indignant, too seen thing. How dare Hilda see and know her so easily. How dare herself be so transparent.

Hilda reels back with the force of it, cups her cheek.

They look at each other.

“Now you know,” Zelda says contritely. “Now you know I could never deserve the kind of home you could offer me.” She deposits the butt of her cigarette in her tea cup and moves to shoulder her olive duffel bag in retreat. But Hilda stands, swipes the bag back onto her dingy hardwood, places her hand on Zelda’s trapezius.

“Get real, Zelds. Who could put up with you but me?”

Zelda doesn’t know what to do with that. Zelda also doesn’t know what to do with her hands. They hang at her sides, fisting against her uniform skirt. Zelda doesn’t know what to do in general. She says,

“Put up with me or don’t, I guess, then.”

Hilda’s fingers clench at her trapezius, and her other hand finds Zelda’s hip.

“That can’t be your real answer,” Hilda rasps, her mouth millimeters from Zelda’s mouth.

“It’s the only answer I know how to give,” Zelda says.

xxx

Hilda is pressing her body against Zelda’s body. Hilda must remind herself she’s the only empath here. Hilda must remind herself that Zelda knows only what Zelda knows through her own senses and experiences and prejudices.

However much Zelda might have surmised from the photos she’d sent, Zelda is still Zelda—obtuse and categorically indulged and not subtle.

Her cheek stings, but that’s to be expected when she’s confronted volatile, angry Zelda. It’s to be expected when she’s confronted Zelda in an uncomfortable way. 

“I’ve never wanted to hurt you,” Zelda says.

Hilda laughs at that, says,

“But you did anyway. Just for kicks.”

Zelda jerks away, says,

“Not for kicks! Because I didn’t think!”

Hilda grasps a retreating hand, says,

“Don’t think, then.”

Their fingers lace rather subconsciously. They look at each other. They speak without speaking. And then Hilda says,

“Please.”

Hilda’s always been the subtle one. 

Zelda closes in. She presses her lips gently to Hilda’s. But Hilda doesn’t want gentle. Her tongue is ardent, screaming, raging.

Hilda is subtle until she isn’t.

And now Zelda is having trouble taking what Hilda is giving.

Zelda wants to ravage, wants to devastate. Does Hilda want that? Hilda’s ready mouth says yes.

Zelda abandons any pretense of leaving. Zelda abandons any pretense of doing anything but this.

Hilda pulls at her shoulders, says into her mouth,

“I want you. I need you. I always have.”

Zelda can hardly stand it. She grips Hilda’s sides, fingers feeling coarse material and then gaining purchase in the soft flesh beneath. She grasps and gasps.

“Oh,” Zelda says, “I’ve always wanted and needed you more.”

Hilda groans, says,

“Is that so?”

They again look at each other. But then Zelda buries her face in Hilda’s neck, whispers,

“Yes.”

“Prove it,” Hilda rasps.

“How?” Zelda says against Hilda’s neck.

Hilda cups Zelda’s face in both hands, positions it so she can look directly into her eyes.

“Just tell me, love.” Zelda blinks, blinks again.

“I’ve already done that. You want me to embarrass myself with melodramatic confessions. I refuse to do that. But I will make you feel so good if you let me.”

Hilda kisses her then, hard, forceful, knowing.

xxx

They tumble onto Hilda’s single bed. The blackout curtains are already drawn, but the sheets are taut, and they bounce like the proverbial dime on the precise linens. Zelda finds herself on top, and she likes it. She likes having Hilda’s lush and lithe body beneath her, yielding to her. She slots her thigh between her sister’s and bucks her hips. They both moan about it. She licks the shell of Hilda’s ear.

“I want you to be naked,” Zelda husks.

“Of course you do,” Hilda says as she works the buttons on her blouse. “But I want you to be naked, too.”

Zelda shoots up, removes her skirt and blouse, unclasps her bra, draws down her underwear. She’s very quickly naked. And so she watches Hilda after she’s finished.

It’s a heterogeneous pile on the floor. Olive WAC uniform and whatever Hilda had been wearing to appease their relatives for Solstice, whatever she’d been wearing to be on call for the ambulance service.

And a nude Hilda is now lying supine and yearning on top of her linens.

Zelda doesn’t waste any time, climbs atop her reverently.

They kiss and buck and writhe, and then Zelda says,

“I want to fuck you.”

Hilda groans and bucks, says,

“Please do.”

Zelda’s never been subtle.

“I want to use my mouth,” Zelda says.

“Please do.”

Hilda’s always been subtle until she isn’t.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s not the kind of party Zelda’s been to before.

She’s been to high teas and orgies, potlucks and circumcisions, masked balls and wine tastings.

She’s never been to just a normal mortal Christmas party held in a glorified barn where a man in a Santa hat is inelegantly plunking out popular carols on an out of tune piano and couples are sloppily dancing and even more sloppily singing along, drinking from mismatched cups of spiked cider.

“I know it’s not your type of thing, but I promised Peggy I’d make an appearance—” Hilda whispers into Zelda’s ear, but Zelda places a hand on her shoulder, steps slightly away, says,

“Stop apologizing. You’ve already elucidated your reasons, and I’ve already agreed to be here.”

What she doesn’t say is that she’s a little excited to meet Hilda’s mortal friends and that she can’t focus on doing so if Hilda’s going to be whispering in her ear all night.

What they both haven’t said is anything about last night.

xxx

Zelda had woken up nude, pressed tightly to nude Hilda’s back side, one hand in Hilda’s hair and the other on a soft breast. She had briefly panicked and then just as quickly assessed: she wasn’t hung over, so she couldn’t blame her actions on alcohol. They were both naked, Hilda was allowing her to spoon her, and she could dimly see the pile of clothing in the corner, so it hadn’t been a dream. It logically followed, then, that she had finally coerced her love into physical intimacy somehow. The details were a blur to her; only impressions and electricity and guilt remained. With all the warlocks she’d hexed for having even thought in passing about defiling Hilda, here she had found herself the ultimate culprit. 

She had set her jaw against the realization, and then she had gingerly removed herself, careful not to wake her sister, and threw on Hilda’s flannel robe to run down the hall to the washroom.

After she’d gathered herself as much as she could—she couldn’t just disappear, after all; she could technically, but that, she had reasoned, would create even more problems—she had returned to Hilda’s flat to Hilda in a full slip, scooping instant coffee out of a tin and whistling along to the radio. She had turned as the door opened, smiled at Zelda, said,

“Do me a favor, Zelds?” Zelda had swallowed and nodded. “Bang on the radiator a few times, yeah? The stick I use is right there next to it.”

Hilda hadn’t seemed the worse for wear, had seemed her same sunny self. Zelda couldn’t tell if that was worse or better.

“I don’t have any meat. But I do have eggs, stale bread, and marmalade,” Hilda had said, handing her the cup of sludgey instant coffee.

“Not much better at Arlington Hall,” Zelda had said.

They’d looked at each other then, and Zelda had felt small frissons of Hilda’s magic. She’d locked down her emotions and thoughts, continued,

“Thank you for having me.” Hilda had laughed,

“My pleasure.”

Hilda had had to work. Just a six hour shift. She’d invited Zelda to see her station house, get acquainted with her life, but Zelda had declined.

Zelda had known she needed the time away to burn off some of her excess magic, all this magic she’d been neglecting for months welling inside her.

As she had stood knee deep in the Thames, spelling the water to be warm, the fish to be luminescent, she wondered how Hilda used her magic so she wouldn’t combust. Perhaps it wasn’t the same for all witches. Perhaps she was defective, accidentally used her telekinesis in bouts of rage because she just wasn’t a good witch. She had prayed harder, spelled harder at that thought.

And then it had been time for Hilda to wrap up her fake mortal duties, and Zelda had teleported back to Hilda’s shabby living quarters. Physically, metaphysically, magically, Zelda had felt better, but she still had so many questions and so many points of guilt and shame and confusion.

Hilda had found her sitting on the divan reading a newspaper. Hilda had immediately begun removing her coveralls and had been saying,

“We really don’t have to if you don’t want to—” Zelda had not looked up, couldn’t trust herself to, said,

“When you visit me in America, I’m sure I’ll feel compelled to subject you to plenty of vile traditions.”

xxx

Zelda’s grown tired of the uniform. That’s something that could’ve been bet on. She’s not subtle and especially prefers not to be seen in the same outfit twice. But there’s a war on, and one makes sacrifices. It’s a party, though, so she’s opted for silk. She’s a tad overdressed, but she doesn’t mind that.

What she minds is the inviting flesh intermittently flashing at Hilda’s open collar.

Hilda had known what kind of party this would be—informal, haphazard—and so she’s in a wool skirt and a white blouse and mustard cardigan adorned with the hummingbird brooch Zelda had given her, and that blouse with its unreliable buttons keeps teasing Zelda.

They make the rounds at this “occasion” as Zelda refers to it derisively in her own mind. 

She’s sharing a wooden chair with Hilda at a small table as they drink spiked punch—spiked with what she wouldn’t dare guess—and play rummy when a big brunette—her stature is large, her hair is large—sidles in beside the table.

“Glad you could make it!” The brunette says, a hand on Hilda’s shoulder. Zelda bristles, but Hilda says,

“Wouldn’t miss it. Peggy, this is Zelda.”

The brunette’s eyes widen, and she clears her throat, offers a hand to shake, which Zelda takes primly. The brunette says,

“Hope you liked the pictures, babe. If you didn’t, well—”

Hilda’s eyes have also widened, and she and the brunette share a look.

The man in a rumpled Royal Navy uniform to their left calls rummy, and Zelda says,

“I need a fresh drink.”

They’ve soon got different contraband cocktails in their hands and are sitting close together on a fourth-hand settee off the dance floor.

“To believe you’d let that woman—” Zelda begins but trails off as Hilda is peeling off her cardigan, saying,

“Demons below it’s hot in here.”

“You’re trying to distract me,” Zelda says. Hilda giggles, rises, says,

“If I were trying to distract you, I’d ask you to dance.” But she’s already step-touching and extending her hand for Zelda to take. Zelda does take that hand, and they’re dancing, hip to hip and chest to chest. 

It had been a rather clunky jazzy rendering of “Good King Wenceslas,” but it’s now late enough in the evening that the Santa hat guy is too toasted for anything real and has been replaced by a bespectacled young woman, who begins a much smoother “My Sister and I.” They sway together, and it’s fine. It’s nice. Hilda’s breath is close and hot on her collarbone, and she lets herself relax into the feel of their bodies undulating together. Until Four Eyes starts in with a sad alto warble, and Zelda puts two and two together about what the song is. She doesn’t even make an excuse, just extricates herself hastily and hoofs it to the refreshment table.

“‘But we don’t talk about that,’” Four Eyes croons. 

Zelda downs a half cup of spiked punch and lights a cigarette. She expects Hilda at her elbow any moment, asking her what’s wrong with big pleading eyes that she won’t be able to stand to look into, but instead, the song changes abruptly. Four Eyes doesn’t bother with a modulation or anything, is just suddenly pounding out an energetic “There’ll Be Some Changes Made.” Zelda looks over and just catches the tail end of Hilda’s slipping a bill into Four Eyes’s blazer pocket, chugging a drink, and then grabbing a nearby marine by his forearm to drag to the dance floor for a furious jitterbug.

Zelda can’t help but watch Hilda’s rapid but precisely controlled movements, the increasing flush of pink at her chest, the sweat at her brow. And then especially her garters as the marine manhandles her into acrobatic positions. Zelda almost drops her cigarette into the punch bowl, but Peggy saves her from that party foul. The big brunette catches her wrist, says,

“You should take her home before she loses any more layers.”

“Excuse me?” Zelda says, pulling her wrist out of Peggy’s grasp.

They stare at each other.

“Sorry. I assumed you’d known her a while,” Peggy says.

“I don’t know if I like what you’re implying,” Zelda says.

“No judgement. Just trying to be conscientious. Doesn’t bother her, and it certainly doesn’t bother me, but I have the feeling it might bother you that—”

The song ends, and Zelda doesn’t listen to the rest of what Peggy has to say as she’s too focused on watching Hilda kiss the marine, just a peck on the cheek, and then Hilda unbuttons her blouse a few more buttons, rolls up her sleeves.

“Thanks for your concern—” Zelda starts distractedly, but Hilda’s heading toward them.

“I’d never have put money on you two being fast friends,” Hilda’s saying as she bypasses them both and pours herself a drink. Peggy says confidentially to Zelda,

“It’ll be a black day when they start rationing aspirin.”

Zelda scoffs and takes Hilda’s bicep, says into her ear,

“We’ve made an appearance. Are you quite finished?”

Hilda’s eyes are a little unfocused as she looks at Zelda and then Peggy and then Zelda again.

“Not in the slightest,” Hilda says as she’s undoing the rest of her blouse’s buttons. She shrugs out of it and drapes it over Peggy’s shoulder. At least she’s wearing her full slip.

She’s soon pulling a boy in a sweater vest too young for the draft—and therefore too young for this party—to spin her around to Four Eyes’s up tempo version of “By the Light of the Silvery Moon.”

“I’m telling you, babe—” Peggy starts.

“Don’t call me ‘babe,’” Zelda says, and she stalks toward the dance floor.

Zelda cuts in.

“Why are you trying to spoil my fun?” Hilda says. “Tim’s such a good dancer,” she ends in a whine.

“And I’m not?” Zelda says.

“You’ll have to prove it.” 

And Zelda’s already twirling her, lifting her, throwing her this way and that. Hilda is breathless and sweating and so pink with exertion. Zelda drinks in the looks on her face, the heat and energy of her body.

Four Eyes finally shows her obvious skill, transitions seamlessly to a melancholy “Shine on Harvest Moon,” and Zelda holds Hilda tight against her.

“Time to go?” Zelda says hopefully.

“Probably best. Before I take off every stitch of my clothing,” Hilda says into her neck, raising goosebumps.

Hilda’s chatting with a British Army officer as Zelda gathers the garments Hilda had shed throughout the evening. Zelda doesn’t compel her to redress but does insist on the wool overcoat.

They’ve walked eight of the ten blocks to Hilda’s building when Hilda stops, says,

“Haven’t you ever wanted to fuck me in an alley?”

Zelda blinks and is glad her expression can’t be read in the dark.

“You’re drunk,” Zelda says.

“That doesn’t—” Hilda hiccups. “—invalidate my question.”

The air raid sirens sound then, so loud and so piercing. Hilda’s drunk, but her training is such muscle memory. She darts between buildings, and Zelda follows. They’re crouched next to each other against damp brick, a wailing encompassing them.

“It doesn’t have to be this way. We could teleport—”

“But we’ve both chosen it, haven’t we?”

The sirens continue wailing, and Hilda presses her mouth to Zelda’s. Zelda welcomes her tongue, twines her fingers in blonde curls. Hilda’s in her lap, fingers digging into her hips. The wailing stops, and there is deadly quiet.

They consider each other in the moonlight.

“Two blocks yet,” Zelda says.

Once in Hilda’s flat, Hilda isn’t the only one to disrobe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from the group chat: Hilda likes to get naked when she drinks.


	5. Chapter 5

Zelda wakes with a start, sweaty and confused and dizzy. She pants and stares in the dark at the equally dark ceiling. She blinks rapidly until some ambient light from a far-off outbuilding reaches her finally and she can discern shapes and forms in the night.

She sits up and lights a cigarette, pulls snapshots out from where they’re hidden between the pages of her diary. An index finger traces Hilda’s photographed form.

No matter how many times and in how many ways the real actual Hilda had reassured her and encouraged her and begged her, she feels a certain amount of guilt about working herself up to these representations. It is dirty to her, somehow. It’s something men do without guilt or apology. She ought to be punished for even possessing these images. But everyone had turned a blind eye, had allowed her, had indulged her.

She thinks about Hilda at that mortal Christmas party, taking off her clothes. She thinks about the decadent nights spent in Hilda’s twin bed, how happy and sated they’d been.

She thinks she doesn’t deserve what she’s received. She knows what the rest of her family thinks of her: frivolous, proud, deluded, jerk. But what does Hilda really think of her? Really really think of her? Sure, Hilda had opened her home, opened her legs. But maybe she’d done so out of a sense of obligation. Or some sense of impending doom. London is particularly dangerous, after all. Gerry can get you any minute, so you might as well do whatever you might as well, whether you would in real life or not.

Zelda extinguishes her cigarette and puts away her open secret, contraband, lovely photos of Hilda. 

But she remains sitting upright in her bed.

It’s three am. She’s got four hours yet before she must appear at the cafeteria. She knows she won’t sleep again.

And it’s eight am in London. Hilda will be at the station house, alert and ready for anything.

Zelda doesn’t register that she’s done it until she finds herself listening to the ringing.

She’s standing there in her nightclothes and robe in the close confines of the phone box, and a cockney voice is saying,

“Allo allo. What’d you want, then?”

“I’m trying to reach Hilda Spellman?” she hears more than feels herself say.

Raucous laughter on the other end.

“All right, pet. Just hang on to your knickers a minute.”

More raucous laughter, chatter, a pause.

“Hello?” It’s a quieter, more sensitive voice. Hilda’s voice, anticipating a widow or orphan she’d saved from rubble of some sort. Zelda chokes at that but finally says,

“It’s me.”

“Oh,” Hilda says.

“Are you well?” Zelda says because she can’t think of anything else.

“Well enough. You?” Hilda says.

“Not so well, actually,” Zelda says.

“What’s wrong, love?” Hilda says, and her voice is all concern. Zelda can hardly stand that, can hardly voice a complaint that’s so trivial in comparison. Yet still she manages,

“I’m not there and you’re not here.”

“We’re where we ought to be,” Hilda says.

Zelda groans and sighs. Hilda sighs in turn. And then Hilda says,

“Don’t you believe me? Don’t you trust me?”

Zelda takes a deep breath, says, 

“Of course I do. Why else would I call you in the middle of the night?”

A long pause.

“You very well know this is not the middle of the night for me,” Hilda hisses.

“But it is for me,” Zelda whispers.

There is shuffling on Hilda’s end. Muted sibilance, scraping, scratching, and then an echoey:

“Talk.”

Zelda knows Hilda’s made room for her, has accommodated her. She slumps against the glass wall of the phone box, says,

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“And?” Hilda says, breathless but impatient.

“It’s the middle of the night, and I wish you were here with me.”

“Expected,” Hilda says.

“It’s the middle of the night, and I’m touching myself thinking of you.”

“Oh...” Hilda says.

xxx

Zelda’s gone. She’s left to reapply herself to her secret-not-secret US government job that is quite obvious code-breaking.

Hilda likes the idea of Zelda in a uniform, submitting herself to a higher cause. It’s such a dissonant image juxtaposed to how she’d always viewed her sister. But they’re a unit together. And if she’s expended her energy toward the war effort, it makes sense that Zelda had done the same in her own capacity.

Hilda worries that her attraction is narcissistic rather than genuine. But there is so much to worry about that is right in front of her and bleeding and trapped beneath bombed out rubble.

xxx

Hilda has placed herself in the supply room, the cord of the telephone stretched to its limit.

“It’s the middle of the night, and I’m touching myself thinking of you,” Zelda’s scratchy, far-away-sounding voice says.

Hilda considers. Zelda might be telling the truth, or she might be just trying to get off rubbing herself against whatever surface is available. Zelda had been known to be the kind of woman who satisfied herself before others. Their Yule together might have been an anomaly. Hilda wants to trust her sister. 

“Oh...” Hilda says. They breathe at each other for a moment and then Hilda continues, “Describe how you’re touching yourself.” It’s as good a fail safe as anything.

There is heavy breathing and static and then:

“My nipples are already hard. They don’t require any further attention. I’m holding the telephone receiver in my right hand, so my left hand has slipped under my waistband. Forefinger and middle finger have discovered abundant wetness.”

Hilda, without consciously thinking about it, has mirrored what Zelda’s described.

“Go on,” Hilda husks.

“I circle and circle. Up and and down.” Zelda stutters then.

“Don’t stop,” Hilda says.

Zelda is unable to answer verbally other than a low groan. Hilda listens closely and follows.

“Good girl,” Hilda says. “I’ve got a few pictures I can send you for your efforts.”

“I don’t deserve them,” Zelda says.

“Oh but you do, love,” Hilda says.


	6. Chapter 6

“All right, Spellman?”

“Hmm? Yeah. All right,” Hilda says.

She’s sitting in the brisk wind on the roof of the station house, having trouble lighting a third cigarette.

“You don’t usually smoke,” Peggy says, even as she’s crouching, knees creaking as she uses her large frame and large but disconcertingly elegant hands to help guard the flame. The cigarette finally lights.

“No. I don’t suppose I do usually,” Hilda says. Peggy remains crouched and staring at her.

There’s not a great or even especially succinct way to tell Peggy what she’s not all right about. 

She can’t exactly tell her she’d driven an ambulance in the last war, as well. That she’d parachuted herself into the front lines even though there was about a thirty percent success rate for nurses doing that sort of thing. That a torso they’d found without a bottom half in the remains of a cellar a few hours ago had had almost the exact same face as an eerily similar half of a man she’d pulled out of a trench more than twenty years prior. It would seem like a delusion or a lie to Peggy, who saw her as a young woman, too young to have remembered much at all about the previous war. Perhaps in some ways it is both a delusion and a lie. Each iteration of herself outside of the witching community is a different sort of lie, and each time she crosses between these two worlds she loves equally and wishes to protect it’s a different sort of delusion.

She supposes she could just say she’s tired. That’s obvious. And true enough. 

But it’s more than just the war. That’s humans for you. That’s cyclical and violent and never ending—ouroboros. She hates it, and it hurts, but it’s nothing that couldn’t have been expected.

It’s not just the futility of her ministry to the mortal world. It’s how it’s affecting her magic and how in turn her magic affects her physically and mentally.

She’s stove up, as an old gentleman had commented upon witnessing her rubbing absently at her lumbars as they were both queuing for bread. That’s how the pooling up of her unused magic works in her—settles in her joints, makes her stiff and slow and melancholy.

She’s been trying to siphon it off in little things but keeps forgetting and kicking herself afterward. She could’ve used it to light her cigarette against the wind, in fact, but she’s so accustomed to doing everything the hard way. Her own nature is foreign to her at times.

She ought to do something big, something cleansing. A ritual even. But when she comes off a 16 hour shift, she’s so bone tired. She drinks a brandy and sleeps, wakes up stiffer than before, again kicking herself.

Her stifling magic, this stifling war. She can hardly breathe.

But it’s not just that, of course. Of course it wouldn’t be so easy as that, as not easy as all that is. It’s this Zelda business, too. 

And that’s definitely not something she can confide in Peggy about. Sure, Peggy understands doomed sapphic trysts. Sure, she could be vague and oblique about it so that Peggy’s empathy would be guaranteed. But the fact that Zelda is a woman is the least of her concern. Witches indulge in that way and don’t make it some tragic taboo nonsense as mortals do. But witches and mortals generally agree that fucking your sister is bad. And even if they didn’t, there’s Zelda herself—all bluster and glamor to hide her insecurities.

Hilda has very few insecurities. She had never been pretty or popular enough to invite the kind of scrutiny that might result in Zelda’s particular brand of self-doubt.

And that is enough in itself to give her pause. Zelda’s mouth says she’s not worthy. But to what end? Just to force Hilda’s reassuring hand? Surely not. Surely Zelda craves a genuine connection. But then again, she could have a connection with anyone she chose. Hilda feels—in a far-off sort of way—that she’s the one who’s been chosen. But Hilda’s been suppressing her empathic abilities for so long she can hardly tell what is what anymore.

“Off shift in an hour. Any plans?” Peggy says. She’s reclining on her elbows now. And Hilda peruses her. She’s an attractive woman, all muscle and bleeding heart. Hilda wishes she could have a simple, straightforward romance with someone like this instead of all the confusing things in her magic-addled brain.

“Bed,” Hilda says.

“Single or double?” Peggy says, attempting off-handedness but still a touch lewd.

Hilda almost rises to the innuendo. But then on second thought,

“Single.”

xxx

Hilda’s dead on her feet walking back to her flat. Her ribs ache, the base of her skull aches, even her wrists ache. She wants nothing more than to melt into her bed, but it’s come to a point that she if she indulges herself now she isn’t sure whether she’ll be able to even bend her knees in the morning. Like the Tin Man. Except she does have a heart. And it’s perpetually thumping against her breastbone, reminding her of who she is in real life.

Edward is High Priest now and so back in Greendale. If she were doing what was expected of her, she’d be in the front pew listening to his sermons then taking his dictation then hosting ladies’ dark scripture studies. It might not be so bad. She could go to America. She could get a day job in a munitions factory and perform whatever duties her family guilted her into. 

She shudders at the thought.

It’s all she needs to remind herself: she’s got to get rid of her excess magic before it immobilizes her.

She lies naked in her single bed. She’s got candles lit for it, but she’s also drawn her blackout curtains just in case.

She concentrates, chants, writhes. She’s magically manipulating joists and foundations of adjacent buildings. A protection spell here, a fortification spell there. Swirling palpable magic. She almost chokes on it.

She finally passes out. She’s exhausted, but it’s the good kind of exhausted.

xxx

“Letter for Spellman!”

Hilda’s been in such a good mood since she’d gotten rid of all that magic. She scowls now.

It’s, of course, Zelda’s scrawl on the envelope.

She opens it immediately anyway:

_Been transferred to Bletchley._

_See you soon?_

It’s a lot of nothing. But it’s the kind of nothing that makes Hilda’s heart race. 

Zelda’s been indulged. But when it comes down to it, Zelda wants only to be indulged by Hilda. And that might mean something. Hilda hopes it means something.

xxx

No communication for months. 

And then Zelda’s in the doorway at the station house.

Her voice is aggressively American as she says,

“What’s a girl gotta do to get a light around here?”

Several matches zip, but Zelda’s looking across the room toward Hilda at the roll-top desk where Hilda is writing up an incident report. Hilda doesn’t raise her head as she says,

“Not much, it seems.”

Zelda wends her way through, avoiding the others, stands at Hilda’s shoulder, says,

“I need to speak with you. Privately.”

Hilda clicks her tongue but ultimately ushers Zelda into the warden’s office. She’s not the warden. Merely interim warden. She commandeers the office infrequently. She props herself on the desk rather than sitting behind it.

“I’m only an hour and a half away from you now,” Zelda says.

“Good for you,” Hilda says.

Zelda approaches, breath in Hilda’s face.

“Yes. Very good for me, indeed.”

“I know in the past I’ve been rather lax, but I’m at work—” Hilda starts.

“Yes. Of course,” Zelda says, and she steps back a pace, smooths her skirt. “Shall I wait for you at home, then?”

Home. Hilda doesn’t know what the word means. They’ve all got different passports and visas and citizenships. Villas and bungalows. Mortuaries and manses. Zelda probably means Hilda’s shabby flat. It’s as much a home as anything.

“Shan’t be long, love,” Hilda says finally.

“It’d better not be,” Zelda says and she exits.

xxx

Hilda doesn’t use her key. She knows the door’s unlocked and pushes it gently. It smells of lemon cleaner and contraband dark tea inside. She takes off her boots and coveralls and melts into the settee. She knows Zelda will find her sooner or later.

“Long day?” Zelda says. She’s standing at the foot of the settee, a cup of steaming tea in her hands.

“As all days are,” Hilda says.

Zelda doesn’t hand her the cup. She places it on the mantle and then edges onto the settee, folding herself around Hilda.

“Yes. All days are so long,” Zelda says against Hilda’s neck.


	7. Chapter 7

The performer is French. Well. Maybe not French exactly. She talks French. Her accent is Belgian—guttural and dusky.

Zelda’s got a three-day furlough, and Hilda’s got a night off. And they’ve somehow decided to spend their free time together at a seedy nightclub.

Hilda catches every third word. So does Zelda, but Zelda pretends she understands more—a matter of pride to shore up and store up next to her collection of Descartes and Balzac and Flaubert on her girlhood bookshelf in Greendale. 

But Hilda doesn’t care so much about what Zelda is so obviously pretending or what she herself comprehends.

Hilda’s hand is in Zelda’s hand under the table, their fingers tangled together. Hilda’s other hand grips her gin and tonic. And Zelda’s other hand grips her scotch and soda.

The performer keeps singing in heavily accented French.

Hilda gulps down her drink.

“Est-ce que tu me veux?” Hilda says into Zelda’s ear.

“Fucking bien sûr,” Zelda says.

“Où?” Hilda says.

“Partout,” Zelda says.

The probably Belgian woman slinks out of an opera glove and flings it out into the audience. The silk thing lands in Zelda’s lap. It looks like an elegant hair band. No one but an uppity redhead could pull it off.

But they’re still looking at each other, fingers still intertwined.

xxx

They’ve got an aunt. 

A rich aunt who’d vacated her gorgeous, sprawling premises before the Blitz, had relocated to an interior America city with a safe basement.

It’s dusty but intact, this expatriate aunt’s erstwhile residence.

And most importantly, the wine cellar is untouched.

After the show they’ve walked arm in arm, winding and wending. 

They’re too busy looking at each other, flirting, feeling each other’s breaths against the cold air. They are aimless in their adoration of each other.

And suddenly they’re there. Their almost-forgotten aunt’s almost-forgotten place.

“Do you want me?” Hilda says as she stands on the steps of the house.

“Fucking of course,” Zelda says, hands at Hilda’s hips.

“Where?” Hilda says.

“Anywhere,” Zelda says.

Zelda attempts a kiss, but Hilda skips up the steps and liberates the extra key under the welcome mat.

Hilda swings the door open, gestures grandly.

The furniture is all covered with sheets. The windows are all boarded up. There is a haze. A haze heavy with disuse, abandonment. This is a house that no longer accommodates living people. It is a house of ghosts and dust and what used to be.

Hilda props herself against the cellar door—an inviting, living figure. She’s aware of her juxtaposition. She knows she’s corporeal rather than an ethereal presence in the thick air.

“Want to see what’s left?” Hilda says.

xxx

Their rich aunt had been so very rich. There are aisles and aisles, bottles and bottles. An underground labyrinth. Perhaps the very center holds a minotaur.

Neither of them have a string, but neither of them desire venturing that deep. They’re satisfied with the fringes.

xxx

Zelda is standing on the balcony. She lights a cigarette. Hilda is at her side:

“We don’t have much time.”

Zelda ashes over the railing, says,

“Time is a construct.”

“I should’ve put money on your talking in cliches.”

Zelda inhales deeply, says,

“You’re a gambling woman. But so am I.”

xxx

There are bombs. There are claxons. Noise and destruction.

They’re used to it. It’s all horrible, but they are who they are at this point. They shouldn’t be, but they are.

There should be spells. There should be a lot of things. But they’re both so used to the mortal things they’re used to. And anyway a small magic thing is so inconsequential. Their potions and protections can do only so much without calling upon darker, more ancient, more powerful entities—without disrupting the very fabric of reality.

They both contemplate their respective places in the universe and sigh separately and together.

xxx

Champagne is only champagne when it’s from a certain region in France.

They hadn’t allowed themselves to explore the inner depths of the labyrinth, just the fringes with the cheap stuff. 

But sparkling wine is always sparkling wine. It’s not champagne proper but there’s the CO2. It sparkles all the same.

xxx

Zelda grips the corner of a furniture cover, pulls, wafts.

A sofa is revealed.

Dust puffs into the atmosphere.

They don’t cough. They drink sparkling wine instead. And then they look at each other and then at the revealed sofa.

The claxons, the noise, the destruction—it’s all far away and vague, muted—far-away sound dissipating at high ceilings.

Zelda sits. She’s forgotten how luxury feels but remembers instantaneously as she sinks into a cushion. She glugs another few mouthfuls and then cradles her close-to-empty bottle of sparkling wine.

Hilda stumbles over her own feet but then manages to crank the ancient record player. She takes a swig and deposits her bottle of sparkling wine on an end table. And then she deposits herself into Zelda’s lap.

Her hands are either side of Zelda’s face, and Zelda’s hands are either side of her hips.

xxx

Hilda’s buttoning her coveralls.

Zelda’s smoking a cigarette.

It’s Zelda’s last day on furlough.

“Must you?” Zelda says.

“You know better than to ask such a question,” Hilda says. Zelda extinguishes her cigarette, says,

“I wouldn’t love you so much if you didn’t know to give such perfect answers.”

Hilda looks at her. And then she laces her work boots, says,

“I’m not champagne.”


End file.
